One Hundred and One Nights
by fbeauchamphartz
Summary: Spurned by his first wife's betrayal, Blaine Anderson, King beyond the Sea of White Sand, has become a cruel and heartless man, marrying on a whim and disposing of his spouses the day after - how, no one knows. Until on day he marries Rachel and gets more than he bargains for in the form of her brother, Kurt. Based loosely on the story of Scheherazade Kurt H. Blaine A.
1. Chapter 1

_**Blaine Anderson is King beyond the Sea of White Sand. He is a just and fair-minded ruler, but as a man, he is heartless and cruel. Burdened by a horrible past pain, he marries on a whim, keeping his spouse for one night only and then...well, no one knows what happens to the poor soul after that, but the rumors are varied and horrific. There seems to be no way to stop Blaine's tyranny, no way to heal his sorrow and end this terrible practice, until one day, when he chooses a young girl named Rachel as his bride...and ends up with much more than he bargained for.**_

 _ **Written for the KBL Reverse Bang 2015. Loosely based off the story of Scheherazade and inspired entirely by the amazing artwork of Riverance, which can be found here - post/128024354306/this-is-the-art-for-my-kbl-reversebang-fic-one**_

 _ **A/N: Okay, a few things here. First, the story is loosely based off the tale of Scheherazade. In preparation, I re-read 'One Thousand and One Nights', along with the extensive translators notes, which led me to do the following things - I have decided to make this a more mythical tale, setting the scene in a sort of vague location patterned off the territory that many people envision when they think of the story Arabian Nights. I also chose not to make the characters part of any specific culture, and did not borrow from any specific religion. Don't assume that when the characters say 'God' that it refers to the Christian God or any other specific God, just a deity that these characters believe in as a whole. I have chosen to borrow some of the form and flow of the language from the English translation. I also chose to keep their names canon, as incongruous as that seems, but I personally think it's confusing to change the names and expect my readers to follow along without getting confused. You came here to read a story about Kurt and Blaine, you're reading a story about characters named Kurt and Blaine. End of story. This story would not be possible at all without Riverance, who is one of the most amazing artists and people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Please follow my link to her art and give her tons of praise :)**_

The patter of bare feet on smooth, stone floors.

Giggles in the dark.

A rustle of cloth.

A kiss on the cheek - a moan as kisses travel.

The sounds of infatuation and excitement filled the air in the resplendent palace of the virgin King, recently crowned and newly married.

But not virgin for too much longer.

The wedding of Blaine Anderson, King beyond the Sea of White Sand, had all the makings of an epic love story – a noble King, his beautiful Queen, and a first night filled with passion and the blossoming fruit of love.

Ever since his thirteenth birthday, when boys of every status were proclaimed men, Blaine had had concubines made available to him, as was his right, but he never availed himself to them. He refused to lie where he did not love. As Prince and sole heir to the throne, that decision was seen by many as childish and immature, though none would ever give voice to such traitorous words. But it was still troubling. How could Blaine keep a clear mind to his duties with the poison of lust building up inside him, bringing him beneath its sway? Many felt that want of carnal pleasure would make him weak. But Blaine held strong, and over time, those with nagging minds saw him as that – strong. And since he had the strength of mind and purpose to remain unsullied, he came to be considered wise, trustworthy, and above all things, just - a perfect ruler.

He had the sex slaves of the palace sent away, compensated and re-distributed to areas in need of their services. He did not want their presence to offend any who may be propositioned to become his bride. His father might have seen that as a failure, not providing the kingdom with a successor should Blaine fail to find a match, but Blaine would not spread his seed out of obligation.

He wanted to make a gift of his virtue, to one he felt he could respect, trust, and love, and receive that same gift in return.

Several months after his twentieth birthday, Blaine believed that the Vizier had finally found such a person.

A princess of fierce wit and intelligence, crowned by a singular beauty – skin pale as the fair desert sand, hair a cascade of gold over slender but strong shoulders, and eyes that shone like emeralds, twin gems worth more than all the riches on Earth, above and below.

A rare and exotic treasure for Blaine to pledge himself to, to bequeath his loyalty…and his desire.

She would come only second in his life to his kingdom, and forever be true and precious in his heart.

Her name was _Quinn_.

Quinn, given to him as a gift from a far-off land. Quinn, whose name meant 'counsel', in whom Blaine would always confide. Quinn, who would be his sustenance, the blood in his veins, the air that he breathed, whose well-being he'd put above his own.

Quinn, whom Blaine would defend and protect above all others.

Quinn, who would always have Blaine's devotion and affection.

She belonged to him the moment a dowry exchanged hands, but he courted her anyway. He gave her gifts and sang her songs. He filled her room with flowers, and with fragrant pots of rare oils and spices. He bought her fine clothes and jewels. He indulged her unquenchable thirst for reading, and filled a corner of her room from floor to ceiling with whatever books he could find. He put ego aside, and served her in a manner befitting a Queen.

Quinn was receptive to his attentions, and took pride of place at his side, till it became unusual to see one without the other.

Their wedding, weeks later, was like none before it. Even the nuptials of Blaine's parents, the late King and Queen, were not as glorious. Ambassadors from other countries and affluent families from miles around came to congratulate the couple, whom most saw as divinely favored – two kindred souls finding one another from the distant reaches of the world. It was like a fairy tale, and the storytellers recited it over and over in the streets so that the people of the kingdom might revel along with their beloved King. Casks of the King's best Shiraz were opened, squares of wedding cake handed out, and everyone from businessman to beggar made merry.

Gifts of tremendous wealth were bestowed upon Blaine and Quinn, and a magnificent feast served in their honor. Performers of all disciplines filled the palace. Nearly every floor was bursting with musicians, acrobats, jugglers, sword swallowers, and fire breathers.

But Blaine saw none of it. Nothing that was brought before him tickled his fancy. A sitar player, one of the finest in the kingdom, paused before the throne to play for the royal couple, only to continue on his way with his song unfinished. Blaine had eyes only for his young bride, and she, it seemed, only for him.

It could be called fate, kismet, destiny, luck, but no matter. It did not need a name. No greater blessing shone down upon him, and in that moment when the two left the festivities early to consummate their marriage, Blaine couldn't imagine himself any more content.

It seemed like a dream, one he hoped to never wake from.

They could not wait until they were in the solitude of the King's chambers to touch and kiss and hold one another, but they had no fear of being seen. There was no one about, every person kept away from this part of the palace to ensure their privacy. Blaine's hands fumbled, pulling gently at delicate veils and casting them aside until he could look fully upon the face of his bride. She was grace and dignity, and he knew that she would fill his palace with lusty sons and fine daughters, but Quinn was so much more to him than that. She made him feel human; she made him feel equal and whole. As her kisses fell upon his lips, Blaine thanked God and those in his service that he could wed one so clever, so radiant, so exquisite – one whom he could talk to openly, one who made him laugh.

One whom he could grow to love.

He wasn't entirely certain that he wasn't completely in love already.

After tonight, they would be one, King and Queen together. They would be adored and praised more than any other rulers before them. They would be the shining example that love conquers everything, bears everything, means _everything_.

A King without love was like a day without sun, a night without the moon and stars.

It meant everything to Blaine.

Blaine led Quinn with a hand to the small of her back and kisses along her shoulders. He held her in his arms and laid her down gently on his bed, which he had prepared special, covering it from end to end with the softest pillows he could find. As he undressed her, revealing her inch by inch – her ample bosom, her flawless skin, her flat stomach - a modest blush colored her flesh, and Blaine prayed for courage. He prayed for fortitude. He prayed that he should make of himself a pleasing offering to his lady bride. He prayed that years of inexperience would not deprive his beloved of a magical first time in his arms.

Naked as she was before him, the pink of awareness on her skin darkened to an enticing scarlet, but she did not turn away, and Blaine smiled. She might have strength enough for both of them then. He could learn a thing or two from her bravery.

He took too long in his admiration of her, and her smile faded.

"What is it, my King?" she asked, reaching out a hand to touch his cheek. "Why do you seem so…dismayed?"

Blaine swallowed, turning into her hand to kiss her palm. Her skin was soft against his lips, and warm – a warmth he longed to feel all over his body. He was not as prepared for this as he thought he should be, but he regretted not a single one of his decisions. He did what was right for him; he had nothing to apologize for. But he was still nervous, and in that nervousness, he felt afraid. She frowned, waiting patiently for an answer, but Blaine was hesitant to give it. It was not the habit of a King to express weakness to anyone, especially his wife. But if Blaine could not admit his fears to _her_ , then whom should he admit them to?

"I…I've never done this before," Blaine said with a shy laugh, gazing at the goddess that lay before him. "I…I don't want to mess this up."

Quinn gave him an understanding smile, the light from the lanterns twinkling in her eyes like the sun on a new spring day. Her hand moved from Blaine's cheek to the collar of his tunic, tracing the weave of the fabric down his chest till her fingertips reached the hem.

"Well, my King," she said softly, "then we shall learn together, yes?"

Blaine nodded, mesmerized by the way she could calm his fears so quickly. She tugged up on his garment and he obeyed, moving to take it off. Few had seen the King unclothed, none who mattered as far as he was concerned, but he'd never felt this vulnerable, this exposed. He worried what she would think of him, but that lasted only a second. Quinn's eyes went wide at the sight of him, filled with wonder, sweeping over his skin as if she couldn't look enough upon him. He reached for her and her breath quickened. Her body rose to meet his hand, pleading to be touched, but he pulled back.

"I don't know how this works," he confessed. She gasped in surprise, then tittered lightly, the sound of her carefree, unsuppressed laughter flooding his body, making him feel carefree, too. "I mean…I know how it works, I just…am I going to…hurt you?"

Quinn raised her hand to his face and stroked his cheek with gentle fingertips.

"My mother told me that my body will accommodate yours," Quinn said, voice trembling. "You just have to trust it. You have to trust me." Quinn's other hand hovered where the proof of Blaine's need pushed against the front of his pants. "Do you trust me?" she asked in a whisper.

"I do," Blaine said. "I do trust you."

"Good," she said, smiling encouragingly. "That's all you need."

Blaine stole a glance down the length of her gorgeous body, a bit more confident but unsure where to start, but his Quinn, the other half of his heart and soul, seemed to know.

"Will you touch me, my King?" she begged, her dainty fingers wrapping around his wrist, her eyes locked boldly on his. He let her lead his hand to the nest of curls at the juncture of her thighs. He took over then, slipping his fingers inside her, massaging this sacred hollow of her body, which moistened at his touch. It felt sinful touching her there and watching her react. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Her hands grabbed at the pillows beneath her. Her moans filled the air around them, a distinctive music mixed with the sound of the celebration taking place levels below them and his heart beat pounding in his ears. But there could be no sin in this, nothing wrong.

Not about his beloved Quinn.

"Kiss me?" she whispered, their lips already a breath apart, not much more needed to bring them together than that one question. He let himself go when his lips pressed against hers, but it was _her_ fervor that overwhelmed him. She chased his mouth, her tongue slipping between his lips, mirroring the movement of his fingers between her legs. Her mouth tasted sweet, like sugared dates and honey, along with the sip of wine she drank when they exchanged their vows. Blaine wasn't particularly fond of sweets, but he couldn't get enough of the flavors here, where only he would be able to sample them.

Quinn helped the King off with his pants, her hands shaking as they slid down over his ass and his legs, his desire for her springing free.

"Are you…?" he asked, not finishing the question lest he be vulgar. "Can I…?"

"Yes, my King," she said, restless hands clawing lightly at his chest, at his shoulders, urging him to move. "Please."

Blaine guided her legs open with careful hands, watching her breathing stop as he lined his sex up with hers. His body quaked as he entered his bride, the first brush of his engorged cock against her heat nearly doing him in. After that, there was no hesitation, on his part or hers. They were connected, body and mind. He kissed her, she touched him. He whispered her name, she opened up for him, wordlessly begging him to take her. And he did, accepting that which she offered and giving her everything he was, everything he had, telling her in unspoken words about the life he dreamt of sharing with her, his promise to always be faithful, that nothing in the world could tempt him to stray from the rapture that was her and him as husband and wife for the rest of their lives. His body surrendered to hers, filling her with life – life from within him. Ecstasy washed over them both, and a tear slipped down his cheek as he pictured the children that life would bring. The future of not only them, but of his kingdom.

Their claim to immortality.

Elsewhere in the palace, the night had continued on without them. They could hear it in the form of music and laughter wafting through the windows, but for Blaine, time had stopped, and he was glad. How much longer would their life be if every time they made love time paused and waited for them to catch up?

If that was the case, Blaine would be sure to worship his wife's body at least three times a day.

Weary but blissfully spent, and with joyful laughter simmering in his throat, Blaine looked at his Queen, hoping the experience was as remarkable for her as it had been for him. She gazed up at him, breathless, but she seemed to have no words for him, and his heart began to sink. In his doubts, he thought that perhaps she meant to spare his feelings by not giving him an opinion, but for the sake of securing her happiness, he needed to know.

"How was…how was that, my love?" he panted, brushing the hair from her face so he could better see her vibrant eyes.

Her lips parted and she shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, and he feared he had failed her.

"Perfect, my King." She ran her fingers through his hair, then brought his forehead down to her lips and kissed his sweaty brow. "I couldn't have wished for anything better."

Blaine sighed with relief and kissed his wife deeply, taking a last taste of her before they yielded to sleep. He took comfort from her words. His heart settled, finding an easy rhythm with hers that it could keep. He laid his head upon her breast, and with a touch of his cheek against her skin, he fell into a satisfied slumber.

* * *

Blaine felt a wisp of cool air dance across his skin. It fled quickly, and he became warm again, but that single chill kept him on the brink of waking, even when he thought he'd fallen swiftly back to sleep. Soon after, he felt the pillows around him move, felt a body draw up close to his and curl into his arms. He smiled sleepily and opened his eyes, expecting to see his wife wrapped in his embrace, her flaxen hair draped over his pillow, the silken strands tickling his nose, snuggling against him to evade the cold.

He snuffled and blinked, shooing the sleep from his brain, but he could tell before his vision cleared completely that it wasn't Quinn who roused him from sleep, but the striped tawny and white cat his mother had kept. Blaine had rescued her from entombment after his mother's passing. From that day forward, she seemed to prefer Blaine's chambers over his mother's old room.

"Mau," he murmured, scratching the purring beast behind the ear. "Where has my beloved gone, hmm? Have you seen my Quinn? Do you know where she is?"

Mau meowed, turning her head toward the doorway as strange noises echoed down the corridor outside Blaine's room. They were muffled, indistinct but alarming, making Blaine sit up and take notice. There should be no one outside his room, none but the guards at this hour, and Blaine was immune to their footsteps pacing the halls as he slept. If there were any revelers left in the palace, they would have been ushered off to the guest wing by now. But these footfalls, fading into the labyrinth of walkways, were lighter than would be those of a tired, drunken partygoer, and seemed urgent, running away from something, eager to leave it behind.

Blaine was not bothered by whatever or whomever might be lurking about. It was not his place to worry. He _did_ want to know where his wife had gone, however, and threw on his clothes to set out in search of her. It could be that she retreated to her own room. Though he had hoped she would stay with him, his mother had warned him long ago that women were mysterious creatures, in their ways and in their thoughts, and sometimes, as men did, needed time to themselves. Blaine could respect that – it would be difficult, but he could. Still, he had an uneasy feeling as he turned the corner leading to the chambers set aside for the King's concubines and his spouses. Blaine decided that this once he would call on her. He would not linger long if she did not wish it. Once he saw that she was okay, he would leave her alone.

"Quinn?" he called softly, not wanting to alarm her by showing up unannounced. "Quinn, are you here?" He heard a scuffle followed by a yelp that caused his feet to speed their pace. "Are you alright, my love?"

He turned down the final corridor and laughter struck his ears – a hushed chuckle, wicked and sultry.

Unmistakably feminine.

Suddenly, he did not rush toward the sound so swiftly.

Still he walked, moans and whimpers luring him further on, drawing him forward, with Blaine powerless to stop, even as every step siphoned his soul away drop by excruciating drop. Those feverish moans turned his insides cold as death, filling his veins with ice till he became numb to everything – numb to love, numb to compassion, numb to forgiveness.

Blaine knew that voice. He'd heard it sing for him hours before – a breathy alto, gasping for pleasure, begging for completion.

"Yes, yes, yes!" it cried. "Please, God, harder! Fuck me harder! Please, make me cum…"

No, Blaine realized. Not the same. This time it sang with a greater pleasure, a more honest enjoyment of the act. Blaine might be inexperienced, but he was far from stupid. He could tell the difference.

It took only a second for everything inside Blaine to change, for his heart to harden, for his brain to sharpen its focus, for him to banish the hopeless romantic within him to a place deep within his psyche, where he would never have to bother with it again. Where it could rot and die the death befitting of a naïve, addlepated fool.

Blaine squared his shoulders, pulled himself straight, and stormed into his wife's chamber. He should have been shocked by what he saw, and perhaps a part of him was, but he was too livid to feel anything but anger. He found his wife the way he knew he'd find her the moment her gasps hit his ears – lying on her back and mounted like a whore. Their eyes met, but there was no more love in Blaine's gaze, no more affection, and no mercy.

Quinn didn't look ashamed, she didn't look repentant, but she had the good sense to be afraid.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Blaine wasn't about to let her. He never wanted to hear her speak again. He needed his last memory of her voice to be those moans of pleasure that did not belong to him so that she could not persuade him to forgive her.

Had he a knife on his person, he would have lurched forward and cut out her tongue.

"Guards!" Blaine screamed, his golden eyes burning into those of the woman with the dark-skinned servant between her thighs. She stared back at him, pleading silently, her green eyes no more the precious jewels he had believed them, but the calculating eyes of a treacherous snake. "Guards! Come to me! I need you immediately!"

"Yes, Great King!"

Blaine woke to the sound of four spear ends hitting the floor in unison, his body shaking, his palms sweating, the perfumed air around him a festering reminder of his first wife's betrayal. It had been several long years since that night, since that viper claimed his innocence and crushed it underfoot like a ripe fig. He had been plagued by these nightmares too many times. They needed to end. He needed to drive that memory from his brain.

"Set up the banners," he said, breathing heavily in the dark. "Draw up the notices. Send out the emissaries." His voice became dangerous, his next words enacting his terrible plan. "It's time for me to choose my next bride."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** **I want to say a thousand apologies, especially to riverance, for not getting this up sooner, but as I am working hard to wrap up all of my WIPs, I have made this story a priority. I hope you enjoy 3**

Seventy-nine days.

Seventy-nine days spent traveling beneath the blazing, unforgiving desert sun. Seventy-nine days squinting at featureless stretches of gleaming white desert, an ocean of sand too hot to touch until nightfall. Seventy-nine days of his tailbone aching as he sat perched on the hump of a camel. Kurt wasn't a weak man. Seventy-nine days traveling this dry land with very few civilizations in sight could drive even the strongest men to do desperate things.

Like go home.

Kurt didn't so much _want_ to go home, but he felt it was time. He'd been away for longer than he thought he'd be. But he didn't intend on _staying_ home. He never did for too long. The house where he was raised meant nothing to him; neither did the crowded city that harbored it. The moment Kurt left the house of his birth, home became wherever Kurt's heart led him. So the white, baked-clay house that he'd be returning to wasn't home because his heart wasn't taking him there.

His _head_ was.

Kurt wanted to remain steadfast in that belief, carry it like a shield proclaiming his indifference to all, but it was a bit of a lie. As much as he hated that house and that city, he did have one reason to return, one that his heart and his head both missed. One that he longed for these many months.

His beloved sister, Rachel.

Kurt could leave that house behind him and carry a torch for his father's love all the rest of his days, but Kurt missed his little sister too much to bear.

And for love of her, Kurt had another reason for returning home. He had done exceptionally well these past few months, and he wanted to share that wealth with the one person he loved more than he loved himself. He wanted to shower her with gifts and books and music, and regale her with stories of the places he had been, the people he had met, the performances he had given.

In light of this, home should be a place he should want to be since he had already traveled enough to fill her head with stories till her dying day.

But he couldn't make himself stay.

Kurt could square the fault on his father, but truthfully, even if home were the loving, caring sanctuary it should have been, Kurt was a wanderer at heart, a nomad, and he didn't do well behind walls. _That_ he got from his mother. His father simply gave him the impetus to climb on a camel's back and go.

Kurt ran a hand underneath his turban and through his sweaty hair. He sighed, the hot breath from his mouth still cooler than that of the air around him. But he'd better get used to it. Once they passed through the city gates, it would get worse. Everything about the city of his birth was oppressive – the heat, the air, the stench, the buildings constructed too closely together so that one foundation made use of the one beside it. When one house leaned beneath the summer heat, the whole city leaned with it. Kurt always felt it an unintentionally romantic notion.

Ridiculous, but romantic nonetheless.

People from the city had seen the caravan approaching, and a group of them gathered to watch Kurt and his troupe enter. Anything out of the ordinary was a welcome change, and the troupe's caravan – three large wagons painted in rainbow shades; camels adorned with brightly colored saddles, draping, buckles, and intricately shaved hides; not to mention their equally bedecked riders – were as far out of the ordinary as one might see at this time of year. The caravan entered the city to curious glances and shy smiles, and there they parted ways. Some had families there. Others were only visiting, and would look for a bath, a hot meal, and a place to bed down. Many in Kurt's troupe refused to pay out of pocket for such things. Water was worth more than gold in the desert, but gold was still highly sought after and worked hard for. So they would perform for their supper, and the small city would enjoy a few nights reprieve.

Kurt was among the last to depart, not looking forward to the greeting he would get if his father were the first to receive him. He sat at the rear of the entourage, watching as camels and wagons took separate paths, branching out through the narrow paths of the marketplace. Mike, Kurt's right hand man, brought up the last wagon. He was a jack of all trades in the performance business, almost as highly sought after as Kurt himself. He would act as keeper of the troupe's most precious assets – their instruments, costumes, rations, and water.

"All right, Kurt," he said, holding tight to his fiancée, Tina, "enjoy yourself."

"And you as well." Kurt reached out an arm for Mike to clasp. "Don't spend too much, don't drink too much, and don't get yourselves arrested." Mike laughed at his friend's odd yet practical list of concerns. He knew that Kurt had more on his mind than he let on, bothering his head like tarantula hawks plagued the ground-dwelling spiders. "I'll see you guys in a week." Kurt thought again about his father at home, how the man would certainly watch Kurt ride up with a grimace of disgust. "Or maybe a day or two sooner." Mike gave him a sympathetic smile, then turned his camel and wagon in the opposite direction and rode away, bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun.

Kurt sighed. On the bright end of things, for all of its unpleasantness, going home would finally get Kurt out of this blasted sun. Mike, Tina, and most of their troupe were blessed with tan skin, and dark hair and eyes that could defend against it. But Kurt was so naturally pale, he was as fair as the sand, his eyes the color of the mid-day sky. The only difference was the sand and the sky did not burn when touched by the sun; Kurt did, so he constantly slathered his skin in thick creams and lotions. They bled down his brow with his sweat and stung his eyes. It almost wasn't worth the trouble.

 _Almost_.

Every evening, when he bedded down comfortably beneath his blankets and fell immediately to sleep - no raw, stinging skin keeping him from it - he couldn't be more grateful.

He considered stopping by a nearby bath house and sparing a coin for a long, cool soak, but he'd wasted enough time as was. If he avoided going home, he'd probably decide against it entirely.

If his sister found out, and should _would_ as news traveled fast in their city, she'd be heartbroken.

Kurt turned his beast around, clicked his tongue, and ambled off on its back for home.

As a reward for putting his sister's feelings before his own comfort, the homecoming he had been dreading was not the one he received. Instead, as the clop-clop-clopping of his camel's hooves came to a stop on the hard-packed earth outside his house, he heard the gleeful trill of his sister's voice calling from within, as if she had been expecting him for hours … or months.

"Kurt! Kurt! Oh, you're home! Thank the Gods, you're home!" Rachel bolted out the door, pink veils fluttering about her like wings as she ran.

"Rachel! My darling!" Kurt cried. He commanded his camel to kneel with a few staccato clicks of his tongue. He swung down from the animal, then bent once his feet hit the ground to accept her as she leapt into his arms. "Oh, my love! I've missed you so much!"

"I've missed you, too," she said, weeping against his shoulder.

He gave her a spin and a squeeze, then set the giggling girl on her feet. "Okay, okay, stop fidgeting. Let me get a good look at you." Rachel tried her best to stand still while her brother appraised her, but she couldn't. For a girl of sixteen, she had the manners of a twelve-year-old - a beautiful, bare-footed wild child, part princess, part devil, but with the voice of an angel, a trait that she and he both shared.

"Now, now, what's different about you?" Kurt raised a hand to his chin, stroking thoughtfully. "New sari? No …" He lingered on the word while she shook her head "… for this is the one I gave you when I came home last." He bit his tongue against mentioning the three inches of dust staining the hem. He didn't want to make her feel self-conscious. "Did you cut your hair? No, no, I don't believe so. Have you grown?" She nodded like mad, and he grinned. "No, I don't think so. I think you've stopped getting any taller."

Rachel gasped. "You're awful, Kurt," she pouted. "I thought you said you loved me."

"I do," Kurt said. "I do. It's because I love you that I am awful to you." Rachel yelped and took a swing at him, but he stepped swiftly out of her reach. "No, but I'm only joking. You are the most beautiful young lady that I have ever seen in my life, in every place that I've traveled, and don't you ever forget it."

Rachel took her brother back into her arms and held him, burying her head in his neck. He felt melancholy within her, one that she was not sharing. He only hoped that whatever it was, it wasn't anything serious.

"It would be easier to remember if you were here to tell me."

"I'm sorry, my darling," Kurt said, burdened with guilt and how sincerely he meant it. "I would stay if I could, but alas, I'm a performer …" Kurt twirled her around again, adding a dramatic flourish to his voice in the hopes that should would laugh. After a roll of her eyes, she did "… a storyteller, a singer, a …"

"A whore," his father spat, making his way to the door at last to see to the state of his only son. The old man seemed miserable that Kurt did not look more poorly.

"Papa!" Rachel snapped her head around and glaring indignantly.

"It's alright, my love. Don't you fret about anything he says," Kurt whispered in his sister's hair, knowing that more insults would come.

"Look at him," their father growled. "Look at this … this _disgrace_ that pretends to be a man." Their father stumbled forward, one leg limp, the other lame due to a sickness of his heart that the local doctor could find no cure for. Even in his travels, Kurt searched for one, if for no other reason than he felt it his duty, and for his sister, too young to leave their house just yet. But two more years would see her on the back of a camel, traveling the desert beside Kurt if he had anything to say about it. "You dress like a harlot. You paint your face. What do you think people say when they see you, hmm? Do you think the way you look commands any kind of respect from _decent_ people?"

" _Decent_ people?" Kurt huffed. "Oh, I know what _decent_ people say …" Kurt tried to step from his sister's embrace, but she held fast to him - to avoid a fight, or to keep him from leaving. Either way, he chose to stay with her. "But if you think me a whore, then I must be a good one, for I have brought home gold. See there, on my camel." Kurt motioned to the animal waiting behind him. "That leather satchel he carries has enough money to ensure that you and Rachel are properly provided for for half the year."

"That's … that's wonderful!" Rachel gushed from her place in his arms. "I'm so proud of you, Kurt!"

If Kurt expected similar gratitude from his father, he needn't have.

"I don't want your money," the man growled, waving the offer of the sack away with a heavy arm. "I don't need your _filthy_ money."

"It's not _filthy_ money," Kurt said. "And I give it to you for the good of the family – _my_ family, whether you like it or not."

His dad scoffed, unimpressed by his son's claims. "Did you at least have the decency to wash it before you tried to pawn it off on me? Or is it still covered in the sweat and semen of your customers?"

Kurt was struck dumb by that remark, not because he didn't have an answering one for it, but because it contained language unfit for the ears of his beloved sister. Kurt's father had insinuated for years that his son made his money lying on his back, but this was the first time that he'd said so plainly to his face, and in front of Rachel. In truth, Kurt had never been with anyone, man or woman, but that wasn't a secret he intended to impart on his father's bigoted ears.

Kurt wasn't so much insulted by his father's ignorant assumptions, but on his sister's behalf, that she should have to hear such words cross the lips of the father she still managed to love.

"You know what? I'm going to put my camel in the stable," Kurt responded with a bitter smile.

"There's no need," his father grumbled. "Why don't you just climb on the wretched creature's back and be gone? You are not welcome here."

"Good luck with that." Kurt watched his father hobble away and scoffed at the feeble man. His father could say what he wanted with all the venom he could produce, but he'd have no luck tossing Kurt out. Kurt's father could call upon security, police, even the royal guard. None would remove Kurt. Even if they thought it was worth their time (which they wouldn't, because the petty bickering of the common folk were rarely seen as important to the local authorities), money talked, and Kurt had plenty of it, along with charm, flattery, and other shallow assets that men in their city craved: Kurt smelled of fine perfumes, he dressed in lush silks, and had a feminine enough physique as to not be considered vile in the eyes of men who had a tendency to look sideways at young boys while drunk.

No, Kurt's father could not remove him from the house, but he could make Kurt's life miserable.

"Oh, Kurt," Rachel whimpered. "I am so sorry he speaks to you that way."

"It's alright," Kurt said, shushing her gently. "He can't hurt me. And he can't keep me from you."

"I'm glad," Rachel said sadly. "And I want you to know that I don't believe it. Not a thing that he says about you. But it wouldn't matter to me what you did, for you are noble and kind and have always been my favorite person in all the world."

"Oh, darling. And you have always been mine. That is all I need in this world." Kurt moved her veil aside and dropped a kiss onto the shiny crown of her messy head. "Nothing else."

"Rachel!" their father bellowed from within the house. "Come inside now!"

Rachel exhaled long, and with all the irritation of a true teenager. "I do not want to, Papa," she called back petulantly. The stomp of her small foot made Kurt chuckle.

"That was not a request," their father roared back.

"Ugh!" Rachel groaned. "Papa's trying to keep me away from you."

"Well, I won't let him," Kurt promised. "You run on ahead, and when I'm through here, I'll come in."

"You swear?" she asked, looking at him with pleading eyes.

"Cross my heart. Now go, before he yells for you again and hurts something."

Rachel giggled into her hand. She blew her brother a kiss, then skipped her way into their house. Kurt shook his head. It was so hard to believe that she was sixteen, a _woman_. Not the way _she_ behaved. But mostly not because she was his little sister, younger than him by nearly five years, and so long as he lived, he would not see her grown. She would always be the same menace of a child who'd tug down his trousers trying to pull herself standing, climb into his lap when it was least convenient and ask for him to play, and fall asleep in his arms on blustery nights.

Kurt could see himself moving the sun, the moon, and the stars to keep her happy.

The only thing he couldn't make himself do was stay.

Kurt turned back to his camel, which had lain on the ground amidst the arguing, having grown tired of standing.

"Come on, you lazy lima bean," Kurt teased, since the one thing this blessed animal had never been was lazy. "Let me get you squared away."

Kurt commanded the animal to its feet and led it away to his father's old stable, where his father had kept his own camel when he had one, before it was sold to pay his debts … and to keep Rachel, then nine, from an untimely marriage. Thank the heavens the man had been sensible enough to head off that disaster. Arranged marriages might be common among the folks of their backward city, but Kurt absolutely loathed it. He would rather give himself up to debt collectors before he saw his sister sold.

Kurt was determined to see his sister comfortable and cared for until she decided to marry on her own to a man she loved, who was worthy of her, who courted her and treated her like a queen. And if that man did not pass Kurt's muster, there were ways of ensuring that he disappeared. Kurt smiled thinking of some stuck-up, bastard, piece of human garbage bound and gagged in the rear of one of his wagons, being pulled across the desert to be sold away himself.

Kurt wasn't a violent man, but he did enjoy a hand of well-played vengeance.

Besides, the troupe could always use the extra income. Maybe that was a service they could start offering – rescuing oppressed woman by dragging off their suitors against their will and selling them as slaves to distant tribes.

He'd have to look into it, see if there was a market for such a thing.

Kurt had been gone for barely twenty minutes, stripping his camel completely of its raiment and making sure it had plenty of fresh food and water, but when he returned, there was a member of the royal guard standing at the door. Kurt didn't break his stride. There was no reason for him to. One of them belonged there; the other did not. But his eyes opened wide in surprise.

The man was perhaps an inch taller than Kurt, with hair the color of coffee; skin kissed by the sun, but still keeping a cool pallor; and eyes green as Kurt imagined ocean water to be green. Kurt would need to remember this color should he ever, one day, have the chance to compare them.

 _Holy hell! He did it!_ Kurt almost laughed. _He actually did it!_ His father got a member of the royal guard to try and kick him out. Was that what he called Rachel into the house for? Did he send her off to get him? There was no way that his father could walk all the way to the palace to do it for himself, especially not in that small space of time. _That son of a …_

"Blessings, kind Sir," Kurt said, heading the man off and offering him his most humble salaam. "Your presence graces our home. May I be of some assistance?" Kurt looked up at the guard through long lashes, smiling a slightly suggestive smile.

"Well, well, well, I have to say, that's the most _inviting_ greeting I've received in a long time," the guard replied with a smirk and darker eyes.

"It's not every day that a member of the royal guard honors us," Kurt returned. "Would you please come inside for a cup of tea? Take your ease on this sweltering hot day?"

The guard looked Kurt over from the toes of his traveling shoes to his powder blue turban, which had managed to remain relatively spotless despite exposure to the sand-filled breeze. "I thank you for your hospitality, but I am here on official business. I regret that I cannot take you up on your offer. Perhaps another time?"

Kurt smiled with a relief that he hid expertly. "Perhaps."

The guard bowed to Kurt, then turned and left with no mention whatsoever as to why he had stopped by, which chilled Kurt to the bone. A member of the royal guard wouldn't just drop by their house for no reason. He _had_ to have a reason. If that reason had to do with Kurt, why did the man not question him? Why did he not detain him? Why was he so cordial to him?

Because, perhaps, the guard was not there to see Kurt. Perhaps he was there for their father. What could the man have done while Kurt was gone that would call the royal guard to their house? He could barely walk!

Kurt turned to look for the guard, but the man had already gone, and Kurt began to feel ill.

"Rachel?" Kurt called, stepping into the house in search of his sister. She didn't answer, and Kurt felt his stomach take a sharp turn. "Pa-Papa?"

Kurt didn't have far to go to find the pair of them. Their father, standing in a far corner where the light was brightest, seemed to be reading a scroll, while Rachel knelt on the floor, eyes staring blankly with shock.

"Wh-what … what happened here?" Kurt asked. "What did that guard want?"

"He chose me, Kurt," Rachel said, her lower lip wobbling. "He ch-chose me to be his next bride."

"Who!?" Kurt asked aghast. "Who chose you as his bride? That guard!?"

Kurt ran back to the door, half expecting the man to have returned, but he was long gone. And to think, he had been flirting with Kurt when he actually came to lay claim to Kurt's sister! Kurt knew that the royal guard took certain liberties in their city. He didn't know that _this_ was one of them!

 _That two-faced jackal's ass!_

Rachel looked up at Kurt, tears melting streaks through the dust on her face. She looked young, frightened – truly and sincerely frightened for her life.

"No," she said, weakly shaking her head. "The King."

Kurt's eyes popped. "The _King_?"

"Yes." Rachel sniffled.

"H-how do you know the King?" Kurt asked, thoroughly confused.

"I don't. But it is custom for him to choose a spouse on a whim. He will marry me, have me, and then … he will kill me."

From the corner of the room, Kurt heard his father snort. "Don't be dramatic, child."

Kurt wasn't concerned with the mutterings of their father. Rachel was a headstrong and imaginative child, but she wasn't foolish. "And why would he do this?"

"No one knows." Her voice trembled. "It is said that he was scorned by love in his youth and that he chooses a bride or a husband solely to exact revenge on that first love that spurned him."

"But why would he choose to marry you for revenge? You had nothing to do with it! You're … you're just a _child_!"

Rachel straightened to object, but then remembered that her brother, with his unintentionally insulting remark, was on her side.

"That will not matter when …" Her thoughts rushing ahead of her words, she could speak no longer, and crumbled, weeping into her veil.

"Oh, Rachel!" Kurt cried, dropping to the floor beside her. "No! Don't cry, sister. This will not happen! I will not let it!"

"How does this concern you?" his father scolded, disgusted at the disgraceful display of two so-called adults. "This is a _family_ matter."

"Yes, it is a family matter, you pigheaded son of a …" Kurt's words skidded to a halt when his sister wailed louder over their fighting. "And whether you like it or not, I _am_ a member of this family."

"Not a member of _my_ family." His father turned his back on them. "I made peace with losing you long ago."

"Be that as it may," Kurt said between his teeth, "Rachel is my sister, and I will see that nothing bad happens to her."

"It is not your place to intervene. She has been chosen to be the King's bride. This is not a time for weeping! It is a time for celebrating!"

"How can you say that!?" Kurt argued. "How can you sentence her to this!?"

"You listen here you shameless pervert! You Godless heathen! She may be _your_ sister, but she is _my_ daughter, and my word is final on the matter! The King has decreed that she will be his bride, and I have given my blessing."

"A blessing to have me banished!" Rachel moaned. "Or killed!"

"Quiet yourself, girl. You know not of what you speak."

"Then where is his last wife, Papa? Huh?" Rachel asked, hoping by the Gods that she was wrong, and maybe her father knew. Maybe the men of their city knew something that the women did not. "Or his last husband? There have been so many, taken away to the palace and then never seen or heard from again!"

"What!? No!" Kurt gasped, shaking his head. "This cannot happen! This … cannot … happen!"

Kurt saw his father move, crouching in on them with an agility Kurt did not believe possible in his father anymore.

"It _will_!" he said, baring his teeth so close to Kurt's face that it frightened his sister to see. "It will happen because _I_ say it will! Not _you_! You do not dictate what happens in _my_ house, under _my_ roof! Not when you spend months at a time on the back of a camel, spreading your legs for God knows who!"

"My _mother's_ house," Kurt hissed, spitting the words into his father's face. "My _mother's_ roof. And don't you forget it."

Kurt's father flushed so deep a red, Kurt thought every drop of his blood had pooled in his face. He looked ready to slap Kurt, and Kurt would have welcomed it, if for no other reason than to have an excuse to slap the man back, but his father didn't dare with Rachel in Kurt's arms. Regardless of his edict, he couldn't fault her for being frightened. Like Kurt and Rachel, he didn't know what had happened to the women and men that the King married. He put his faith in Rachel's pretty face, sweet temperament, and pleasant demeanor to win the King over so that he might make her his permanent bride.

Kurt and Rachel's father wasn't a wholly wicked person. It didn't sit right with him to send his daughter off to a man who might take her head. But the King's decree wasn't a request. It wasn't his place to say no.

As much as he loved his daughter, what choice did he have?

* * *

"Tell me about something good that has happened to you since last I saw you."

After their father's outburst, he retired early, leaving no instruction but knowing that whatever chores needed to be done would be completed before nightfall.

And they did get done because Kurt did them. He settled his distraught sister at the kitchen table and fed her a simple meal of cheese, fruit, and bread, of which she ate very little. Then he had her bathe and got her ready for bed. He anointed her with olive oil and brushed out the mats and knots in her long, brown hair until it gleamed.

"I … I've fallen in love," she admitted reluctantly.

"Really?" Kurt felt his heart swell for her, and then sink for her. He wanted to be happy for her, but this was the worst possible time for her to fall in love. "And does the object of your affections return that love?"

"Yes," Rachel said, blushing like the innocent girl she was. "I believe he does. But … that hardly matters now, does it?"

"You have to have faith, sister," Kurt said, wrapping arms around her from behind and holding his sister close. "If the two of you are in love, then you have already won, for nothing can split apart two people in love, no matter how hard someone tries."

"That's just a fairy tale." Rachel sighed, looking down at her hands. "Just one of your stories."

"Some stories are based on fact," Kurt argued. "It is true what I say. I have seen it. I swear that by God and all his angels in the heavens above that the King will not harm a hair on your head."

"But … but how can you be sure, Kurt?" Kurt could hear the fear in her voice. "The King … he's not a forgiving man. You don't know what he's like. You're never around long enough to find out."

Kurt winced, but she was absolutely correct. He should be around more. He didn't need to be gone for quite so long this time. He should have been better at protecting her, instead of trying to rescue her after the fact.

He should have found a way to take his sister with him a dozen or more times.

"I know, my dearest," he said, "and I'm sorry for that. But don't worry. I will take care of you."

"Do you have a plan?" Rachel asked eagerly, knowing from Kurt's tales that there hasn't yet been a scrape that Kurt couldn't find a way out of.

"Yes, I do." Kurt swallowed his grieving heart at the reality of lying to his beloved sister. He didn't have a plan. Not yet. But he'd find one. He had to. "So I don't want you to worry a thing about it."

Rachel seemed relieved, which made Kurt's temporary deception that much worse.

Kurt led his sister to her sleeping mat. He tucked her in and lay down beside her. He wrapped them both up in a new blanket he'd brought her. He'd hoped it would cheer her when he first picked it out, that it would soothe the sting of him eventually having to leave.

Those problems seemed miniscule compared to her troubles now.

"Kurt?" she said, resting her head on her brother's shoulder.

"Yes, dearest?" Kurt smiled, knowing what she was going to ask.

"If you are not too sleepy, do you think you could tell me a story?"

"Of course." Kurt buried his nose in his sister's hair. "Oh … but I don't think I know a story to tell you," he teased.

"Yes, you do. You _always_ have a new story to tell."

"And you only ever ask for the same one."

"That's because it's my favorite."

"Alright," he said. "Then I shall tell you that story." He cleared his throat, but it didn't work. The lump that had lodged itself there would not be moved as long as sorrow strangled his heart. How many more moments like this one were they likely to have if the King had his way? "Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom …"

"A kingdom like ours?" she interrupted. Kurt knew she would. She knew this story backwards and forwards. He altered it very little. But she always interrupted, and always asked the same questions on cue.

"No, my darling. It was a kingdom of cool green grass, and skies filled with fluffy, white clouds; where rivers ran, and flowers of all colors bloomed. And in that magical kingdom of tall trees and sweet breezes, there lived a fairy so smart, so beautiful, and with such a lyrical voice, even the birds fell quiet to listen to her sing. She was gentle and kind, and loved by all. The flowers lent her their most perfect petals to fashion her clothes, and the vines offered themselves for her to tie back her silken hair. During the day, the creatures of the kingdom brought her offerings of food and drink, and she sat to break bread with them out of thanks for the meal. At night, the bees hovered close to keep her safe, and hummed her a lullaby."

Kurt felt Rachel yawn, and he smiled a teary smile. She didn't deserve this anxiety. She didn't deserve to first be caught up in the war between him and his father, and now this turmoil. How Kurt hated that horrid decree, and the evilness of the King who declared it. That this man - who knew nothing of their family, nothing of their struggles and the heartache they've endured - could snap his fingers and take his sister away to an uncertain future was barbaric. If only they could run away, but there was nowhere Kurt could take her, nowhere they could go that the King wouldn't catch up with them eventually. It was said, in their small, ignorant city, that he owned the world, but Kurt knew that to be untrue. Kurt knew about the lands beyond their desert. He'd walked their sands, breathed their air. Kurt knew a thing or two about Kings, too, and about those who were loyal to them. Even the vacant desert had eyes and ears. He also knew of a King's vanity, and the lengths they would go to avenge a grudge.

Kurt couldn't risk putting his sister in danger, even if the alternative was losing her forever.

Besides, he would never be able to persuade their father to go with them if they ran. Regardless of how much Kurt despised the man's bigotry, he was still their father. Kurt didn't want to see the man tortured and killed on their behalf.

Kurt barely got halfway into his tale before his sister fell fast asleep, breathing evenly against his chest. Kurt felt pangs of remorse and sadness echo beneath his breast with every beat of his heart – remorse that he did not return sooner, and sadness that that decision may cost Rachel her life.

The story Kurt had been telling Rachel he wrote for his sister – of a head-strong fairy princess who goes against her father's wishes and, defying all odds, becomes a fierce warrior. He rewrote it as a play when he and his troupe found themselves caught in a rough patch without a coin in their pockets to split. Kurt considered it his good luck story since the character of the princess was inspired entirely by his sister, and she, to him, was the luckiest thing that had happened in his life thus far. The performance went over much better than he had ever dreamed. So popular was it that the audience were brought to their feet, and applauded and cheered for three curtain calls. It got to the point that Kurt wasn't sure they would let him and the troupe leave.

But that was the power of a truly fantastic story. Kurt had observed it many times during his travels. It didn't matter if people knew each other's language or not, subscribed to one another's beliefs, or shared their ancestry. Storytelling transcended _all_ of that. It could build bridges, link gaps, made friends out of foes, brought moments of peace during times of strife.

Kurt had even seen a well-spun tale save a life. Stories held a magic like none other, and Kurt was a true believer, a devotee, and a practitioner, probably one of the best around.

A sudden spark of inspiration struck Kurt, so bright and enormous, he almost leapt from the bed.

That was it. He had it – a way to get his sister out of this mess. And it would work. If he played it just right, it _had_ to work. It might require some sacrifice on his part, but he was willing to make it. He had to.

There was none other alive he would make such a tremendous sacrifice for.

Kurt smiled and held his sister tight, apprehensive about the future, but almost impatient to see the dawn.

With the memory of that long ago night dancing through his head, the electricity that leapt from person to person during that performance, joining a group of strangers as one, Kurt came up with a plan to save his sister's life.


	3. Chapter 3

The following morning, Kurt awoke early to start implementing his plan. He journeyed to the opposite end of the city in search of Mike and Tina, traveling by foot to avoid attracting too much attention to himself. He found their camp set up about as far away from his house as one could get in the city – along the outskirts, with lots of open space to simply exist and breathe, a far cry from the congestion farther in. Sleeping in his sister's room, Kurt felt the walls and ceiling closing in on him; the thicker air indoors pressing down on him like a hot blanket.

Kurt envied Mike and Tina their humble camp here on the fringes of what passed for civilization.

He envied their life together, and their freedom to have one.

Mike and Tina met years ago. Mike had been living the life of a nomad long before Kurt left home. Mike found Tina wandering the desert, herself escaping a dangerous match. With her mother gone, and the family savings wasted on frivolities, her father and older sisters had "betrothed" her to a merchant - an overweight, balding, older man with a love of alcohol and an infamously violent temper. She managed to run away from him as they traveled to his home, with barely the clothes on her back - no food, no water, not a coin to spend. Mike saw Tina from afar and he knew – he just _knew_ – like all of the heroes and heroines in the greatest love stories ever told knew when they found themselves in the presence of their one true love.

Mike didn't need to see her face. There was just something about her, something indescribable, for there were no words yet invented to do it justice. And she knew, too. She was not looking to be rescued. She had fought off other would-be saviors before Mike came along. But once she laid eyes on him, and he held his hand out to her, she did not hesitate. She let him sweep her up and carry her off, and they had been together ever since. She did not feel indebted to him, did not love him because he came to her aid. She loved him regardless, indeed in spite of that. They were simply a match – a perfect fit. Supposedly there was one out there for every person in the world.

Kurt had hoped to find his perfect match someday. He was always on the lookout for him, vigilance fueling a fire in his belly.

But that fire started to die with the realization that that would never be.

Kurt told his friends little of his scheme, only that he would be escorting his sister to the palace as she was betrothed to the King, but no more since he felt the less they knew, the safer they were. Kurt warned them to keep an ear to the ground, and that if they did not hear from him in a week's time, to leave the city as scheduled. Do not wait for him, and whatever they did, do not call on him.

However, if they heard news of his beheading before then, they should leave earlier.

Kurt felt that his friends were among his greatest treasures in life. He garnered strength from their willingness to stand beside him in thick and in thin. But should he be relieved of his head from his neck for what he was planning, he'd rather do so alone.

As well, Kurt told Rachel only what she needed to know as he bathed her, dressed her, and packed her things onto his camel for the journey. That way, if need be, she could claim truthfully that it was all his idea, and that she knew nothing of it. She objected to that, to him throwing himself into the fray on her behalf. Still, she felt his plan (what she knew of it) a brilliant one, and was happy that he'd come up with it. But she wept, too. Her brother was giving up so much to keep her safe – his very life, as a matter of fact - and yet their father, grumbling to himself all the long morning while Kurt bustled about preparing, still looked upon him as no more worthy of love and affection than the dirt beneath a pig's hooves. But by the afternoon, that no longer mattered to her. Just as her father had made peace with losing a son, he would have to make peace with losing a daughter. If he could not consider such a wonderfully kind and compassionate man as Kurt his own flesh and blood, then she could no longer consider herself his daughter, and this parting, though abrupt and terrifying, would be a great relief for as long as it lasted.

Kurt bathed himself in fragrant soaps, moisturized his skin in expensive oils, and wore his finest silks – ones he did not dare wear when he traveled since they were delicate (and formfitting), so they remained impeccably clean, their colors bright, their texture soft. He shied away from purple since, in most kingdoms, purple was considered a color for royalty only. Kurt didn't want to appear presumptuous. His entire plan hinged on the King agreeing to his terms. There was a chance, a _huge_ chance, that the King could turn Kurt away at the palace steps … or worse. He could have Kurt executed where he stood. But Kurt tried not to think about that, preparing only for success. The real test would be keeping himself and his sister alive once they were permitted inside the palace.

Getting inside was only a formality.

Kurt chose pale blue instead, knowing that it would accentuate the color of his eyes. His eyes, he'd been told, were his greatest feature. Mesmerizing at times. Hypnotic even. He didn't give those words much weight. They were spoken by men, after all, and in his experience, most men could not be trusted. But if there were any truth to those words and his eyes _did_ hold power, he needed that power now. He needed his eyes to speak for him if he were commanded to hold his tongue. He needed them to show honesty, sincerity, but most of all, he needed them to make him look trustworthy … and irresistible.

Kurt felt the sunset settle in his chest like a bell tolling his inevitable fate. As the sun slid lower in the desert sky, the King's guards returned. That snake at the door was not among them, Kurt noted. That fiendish man, with his flirtatious voice and his sea green eyes, would be considered a viper to Kurt forever.

"We've come for the King's bride," the guards announced. To Kurt's disgust, his father seemed more than happy to admit them, falling to his knees in front of them and offering them the best of the fruit and dried meat in the house. But Kurt would have none of this pandering. He wished to be done with his father. He walked stiffly past the guards and accompanied his sister to the door.

When Kurt's father saw them, when he assumed what Kurt was about to do, he rushed to stop them.

"Only one family member may accompany the King's bride," the lead guard reminded them.

"And that will be me," Kurt said, escorting his sister to his waiting camel already loaded with their things. He clicked for the animal to kneel. It did so obediently.

"The hell it will!" their father roared, storming for the door. " _I_ arranged this match for my daughter! As her father, _I_ will see her to the palace. _I_ deserve to be favored by the King, not a reprehensible miscreant like you!"

Kurt ignored his father, offering his sister a hand for her foot to help her mount the animal. The guards did not stop him, which infuriated their father. He turned to the men for help, but the guards did nothing but look on in amusement.

Kurt shook his head at the man he still called father even after everything the man had done to dismiss him. His father might be older, but he knew nothing of the world outside their small city. The man imagined that his age and status in the household gave him power everywhere.

He did not realize how powerless he truly was.

"You arranged _nothing_ ," Kurt hissed. "The King gave an order, a _disgusting_ order, and you rolled over on your back like a mutt. Your work is _finished_."

Their father stepped forward for a fight, but he could tell that, even in their amusement, the guards respected Kurt more, if for no other reason than he was complying, not impeding progress the way his father might if he made a move to stop him. So the man backed down. He hobbled to the doorway and watched as his daughter, sitting high atop her brother's beast, turned from him without so much as a smile or a goodbye.

Or an _I love you_.

But Kurt gave his father one final glance. He wanted his father to remember this moment when his two children left him.

It would be the last time Kurt would see his father again.

"She need not ride. She can walk," a guard remarked. He looked offended that the seat on the camel should be given to a commoner, her head made higher than that of the King's guard, who were expected to travel by foot.

"My sister is about to become _Queen_ ," Kurt said, with the conviction of a man who would see her sit on that throne till the day she died, regardless of what the smirking morons surrounding him thought. "From this day forward, she walks nowhere in this city. _Hut-hut_."

With a sudden lurch that matched the lurching in Kurt's stomach, the camel took a step, then another, following Kurt as he walked along the ground amid the King's guard to the palace.

* * *

Blaine paced his throne room, becoming more and more agitated with the stretching of the shadows across the floor. It had been some time since he'd married last. He shouldn't feel so anxious. By rights, marrying was a simple matter of exchanging words and drinking wine. It was no more time consuming than a business transaction, akin to buying a camel, regardless of the feasting and celebration afterwards, which he usually declined to attend. Wedding parties were for peasants. They meant nothing to him. He could do away with those entirely since there was nothing worth celebrating.

This was only a formality.

But his mother would demand it. If Blaine refused, she would be disappointed in him. Such traditions were important to keeping their culture alive, she would tell him. A King who was out of touch with his beginnings could not properly lead his people into the future. So for her memory alone he kept to tradition, even if it pleased him not.

But a day that should have been full of simple matters and easy transactions turned ominous by afternoon.

Blaine's Vizier had predicted hot but pleasant weather. There was absolutely nothing of note going on in city – no fights, no uprisings, nothing in the way of crime that would warrant his attention. Today should have boded nothing but good fortune. But as the sun began to set and his guards set off to retrieve his bride, strange things began to occur.

His mother's cat became frightened by nothing. The creature backed itself into a corner, spat and hissed at Blaine as he came near, then scuttled off, knocking his mother's jewelry box off her vanity as it went. The box did not break (which was fortunate for the cat since Blaine's love for the animal only extended so far), but several important pieces of his mother's jewelry scattered – a jade hair clip, her favorite ruby necklace, and a pair of earrings Blaine hadn't seen since he was a small boy. They were uncut sapphires – deep and blue, with a milky quality to them. He remembered when she wore them, how they frightened him. They looked to him like twin lightning storms come to wrap him up in their swirling arms and carry him away. From that day on, she never wore them. He'd forgotten she had them … until now.

"Mau!" he called as the beast sped away, but he could not get the creature to halt. Blaine could recall only one other time when the cat had acted that way. A sandstorm of tremendous proportions followed shortly after, nearly flattening the city beyond his gates. It covered everything it touched in feet of sand, and turned the wells to mud.

Blaine watched the horizon for over an hour, but saw nothing headed their way. He and his people were safe. His mother's cat was not a harbinger of doom. But Blaine still couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming. Oh, if only that blasted girl and her father would show up so that they could commence this marriage and Blaine could go on with his life! He had started to regret sending out that decree. Why couldn't he just learn to get over his nightmares and accept being alone for the rest of his days? What did a King need a spouse for anyway? He should grow old and be happy on the love of his people. He should not allow his decisions to be influenced by a need for vengeance.

But Blaine could not help himself.

As much as he was his mother's son, he was his father's son as well, and his father's son did not know how to forgive and forget.

On and on time dripped, the sun threatening to surrender to darkness without the arrival of his Queen, and Blaine went from impatient to livid. He marched out of his throne room and down to the palace yard. Ignoring those around him also waiting for the new "Queen" to arrive, Blaine stood at the top of the stairs, his gaze locked on the palace gates, awaiting any sign of movement.

"Ah," a steady voice despite the amount of wine its owner had imbibed said as the King appeared, "His Gracious Majesty has finally come down to join in the fun."

"I do not have patience for your humor today, Sebastian, so I suggest you leave me be," Blaine snapped. "Had _you_ gone to retrieve my bride like I asked you to, I would not be standing here, waiting for her to arrive."

"I do humbly apologize, Great King," Sebastian said with a hint of sarcasm, "but, as you see, I was occupied elsewhere, and thus unable to fulfill your request."

"Lying on your back getting your dick sucked is no reason to ignore a request from your King."

"True, but you are also my best friend," Sebastian pointed out. "And had you but waited an hour …"

"An hour," Blaine scoffed. "You flatter yourself."

"Besides, Great King, I do not believe that sending me back to your bride's house would have sped things along. I have reason to believe that there may be members of her family who do not like me." Sebastian had no real way of knowing whether or not the man with the startling blue eyes would bear ill will against him for having been the messenger of their King's decree. But many a brother had before cursed Sebastian's name for delivering such a fate to their siblings. He had no illusions that this man would feel any different.

But Sebastian regretted this one more.

"Really?" Blaine grinned. "Well then. It sounds like they have exceptional taste and keen intuition. Perhaps my new bride comes from better stock than I give her credit for."

"Yes, well, bearing that in mind, I request your leave to retire, Great King," Sebastian said, bowing low. "I would not wish your marriage doomed before it had begun."

Blaine was about to deny his friend's request. If Blaine had to suffer, then why should he suffer alone, especially when Sebastian held responsibility for part of that suffering? But one glance Sebastian's way saw the man list to the left, his face pale, his lips a vulgar shade of blue.

Blue like those sapphires. An accursed blue. Blaine was not in need of bad omens, not on a day already steeped in warning signs.

"Of course," Blaine said, waving his friend away. "Sleep this one off. I will be sure to share with you the sordid details on the morn."

"I look forward to it, Great King," Sebastian said with another low bow and a hand over his mouth, trying to keep his traitorous stomach contents from staging a revolt.

Blaine listened to the man leave but kept his eyes focused on the setting sun. As its golden rays hit the upper edge of the gate, lighting it like a second horizon, he decided to send out a second envoy to retrieve the first. What difficulty had they encountered in retrieving one young woman that they should be delayed so heinously? She was barely even a woman - a girl on the peak of budding into womanhood. She had been chosen by his Vizier, and Blaine had been told that she would make a perfect match for his purposes – she was petite but pretty, energetic and eager, of no particular fortune or from a family of worth.

Even in her small city, she would not be missed.

But the signs before Blaine's eyes pointed to this being a mistake. Something was not right with this match. Blaine would probably do well to call it off, return the girl to her family, and be done with this once and for all.

"Guards!" he called to the men flanking him. "Search the city! Find the wedding party and call off this …!"

All of a sudden, Blaine heard a clamoring without. It crept up on his palace - a low rumble pounding the earth, heading toward his gates, like the stomping of elephants. But the louder it became, Blaine heard cheering and music, horns and tambourines, clapping and laughing and singing, all heralding the coming of his bride. He took a few steps backward to get a better view past the outer walls and saw scores of people, dancers, colorful ribbons and banners, even a camel! It was led by a finely dressed manservant and carried on its back a veiled maiden in soft pink sari, sitting inside an ornate saddle. Blaine's eyes went wide. All of _this_ for his young bride?

His Vizier had been sorely mistaken. The woman chosen to be his bride was _not_ someone who would not be missed.

As the gates swung open, an entire procession walked through like none Blaine had ever seen before, not for a local bride.

Not for a _commoner_.

Only once had Blaine seen such a commotion. He refused to recall the details of it.

But, then again, if he could truly put it behind him, they wouldn't be here today.

Blaine watched in guarded awe as the procession approached. He could tell from the tight expressions on the faces of his guards that they'd probably spent the majority of their short journey attempting to dissuade the crowd, which would explain their lateness, but that at some point they had been overwhelmed and had no choice but to let the rabble follow. Something about that tickled Blaine - that the loyalty of these people towards this one girl was such that even the royal guard could not force them away.

It warmed his heart.

The crowd consisted mostly of women and children, dressed in brightly colored clothes and playing homemade instruments, everyone festive, everyone joyous. Blaine could not remember the last time the people of his city seemed so merry. Too few festivals did they host in Blaine's kingdom. There came a circus every so often, and players once in a while. Did not a performing group just arrive at their gates a day or two ago? Blaine thought he had heard something of it, had seen their camels and wagons come through the gates from the windows of his throne room. As a child, he often watched in anticipation from those same windows as performers arrived. They used to stop at the palace first, by invitation from the Queen, and perform their first night for the court in exchange for gold and food.

Blaine missed those days.

He missed his mother.

What kept him from inviting performers to his palace? Why could he not surround himself with things that might make him happy?

The closer the procession came to the foot of the steps, the more enraptured he found himself, the long dormant child inside of him eager to climb to the highest treetop to get a better view. But as King – the King his people knew him to be – Blaine had to school his expression, appear unaffected by the glee descending upon him, and become more severe. He did not authorize such a spectacle to be made of his bride's journey to the palace, nor did he send a camel to fetch her.

Blaine must discover who was responsible for all of this, and discipline them accordingly.

As the procession came to a stop at the bottom stair, Blaine bounded forward, the scowl on his face silencing the musicians and causing the crowd to go quiet.

"Where is she?" he bellowed from the landing, glaring down at those below as if they were all at fault. "Where is my Queen?"

The camel in the midst of the procession knelt at the manservant's command, and the young woman climbed down from its saddle. She attempted to square her shoulders with confidence and smile, but neither were very strong. She was frightened, of that Blaine could see, and it confused him. She was beautiful to look at, but not exceptionally so. She was thin and shrinking before his eyes, not proud nor strong. She did not seem a leader, or important in any way. Why would these people rally so strongly around this one, scared young girl? Who was she that they cherished her so?

* * *

The guards took a route from Kurt and Rachel's home to the palace that wound through the marketplace. They marched slowly to give the people of the city an opportunity to witness the King's bride, as was custom. But the guards needn't have, since no one seemed too interested, and in that lay a problem. No one interested meant no one cared – not that Kurt's sister was being carted to the palace to marry the King against her will, nor that she might never be heard from again. Such a thing would not stand if Rachel were royalty. If Rachel had a kingdom of her own, with her people behind her, it would be that much harder for the King to do away with her.

Unfortunately, Rachel was somewhat of a sheltered young woman. Even though she ran roughshod around the city, she spoke to practically no one. Few of the locals would be able to tell her apart from any other young woman about, and considering the way she behaved, they were more than likely to assume her a child of lesser age. Kurt needed to make her known. He needed to make a pageant of her.

He needed to make the people care.

It was truthfully only by the stroke of a luck that Kurt dared not rely on that his friends decided to ignore his directives to a small degree and came in search of the wedding procession, dressed in costume, to ensure that Kurt and his sister were indeed safe and not being taken to the palace in chains. Kurt spotted them in the crowd – Tina by the tent of a rug merchant, and Mike pretending to barter for apples. He caught their eyes – theirs full of worry, his of desperation. Using secret hand signals, he bade them for their help, and they understood exactly what he wanted.

"Look! Oh, look! See who comes!" Tina whispered to a woman in the marketplace. "Whoever could that be? She looks important, does she not?"

Kurt needed a crowd of the curious and the excitable to create a procession to the palace like few in this city had ever seen. Mike and Tina would create such a crowd for him, stir up interest where there was none. It was a technique that Kurt and his players used in the more conservative towns they visited to lure people to their shows.

"And a bit familiar," the woman agreed, "but yes. I wonder …" The woman turned to her husband beside her "… who is that there atop that handsome camel?"

"They're being led by the royal guard. That must mean they're headed for the palace," Mike supplied helpfully to another in the crowd. "Maybe she's royalty."

"A princess," Tina said elsewhere, disguising her voice, then flitting away so as not to be recognized.

"Yes, a princess," Kurt heard murmured. "But from what land?"

"Who could she be?"

"No, I've seen her, haven't I? Isn't she one of us?"

"Who cares!? Look at how she's dressed! And riding on a camel!"

"Oh, the King will surely be taken the second he sees her!"

"That's something I need to see!"

Indeed, Mike and Tina managed to gather spectators in no time with their infectious enthusiasm, planting seeds in the minds of those who hadn't even bothered to notice Rachel before, regardless of her perch.

Kurt could not see too far around them since he and Rachel were positioned dead center of the guard, but judging by the uproar building, by the time they reached the edge of the marketplace, Kurt suspected that they had emptied it. Many customers abandoned their purchases to fall in with the parade. Likewise, the merchants, seeing their money walk away from them, gathered up their choicest wares and joined the crowd, trying to sell to those following along.

Kurt began to hear music, and then singing. From the corner of his eyes, he saw dancers join the musicians in the hopes of earning a coin or two.

This procession Mike and Tina had conjured was more than Kurt could have accomplished alone, more than he could have dreamed, aided in part by these entertainment-starved townspeople, but still. Kurt had no idea how he would repay his friends.

He hoped by keeping them alive.

The grandest audience that Kurt had ever beheld escorted him and his sister through the palace gates, and it gave him courage. But that courage started to wither once he saw the gates part to give them entrance, and laid eyes for the first time on the King standing atop the shimmering white stairs that led to the palace, hands on hips, poised for murder, for now Kurt would need to give the greatest performance of his life.

"Where is she?" the King demanded before Kurt could bring his camel to a halt. "Where is my Queen?"

Kurt looked up at his sister, the poor girl ready to burst into tears at another harsh word from the King. He commanded his camel to kneel, and carefully helped his sister down while forcing his own frantic body to remain still.

"Kurt?" she whispered, trembling behind her veil. "What are we to do? He does not look happy to see us."

"Don't worry, my dearest," Kurt said, though in his heart, he did. "Everything will be okay. I promise you."

"But how in the world do you expect to keep such a promise?" Rachel had full faith in her brother. She'd always had. But the escapades he detailed in his stories to her, she'd only experienced second-hand. Standing here now, beneath the gaze of the King, she felt her very blood turn to ice. How in the world would her brother get them out of this alive? She shouldn't have been such a stupid, ridiculous girl! She should have owned up to her responsibilities and gone to the palace alone. She shouldn't have allowed her brother to put himself in danger like this. If the fate of the one who passes through the palace gates as spouse of the King was death, then she should have faced it with her head held high. She shouldn't have drug her brother to his death along with her.

"The way I always do, my love," Kurt assured her, kissing the back of her hand. " _Fabulously_." Kurt peeked over his shoulder at the King glowering down at them. The plan had been for Kurt to present his sister to the King first before he made his offer, but Kurt knew from the way she grasped his arm, nails biting in unintentionally, she would not be easily persuaded to move. She shook so that he thought she might shatter to pieces, and he did not want to struggle with her. Kurt needed their first impression to be a good one.

So he forded ahead alone.

He spun theatrically and ascended the staircase with arms spread, stopping a few steps below His Majesty. At only a few feet away, Kurt took the liberty of a closer look, and had to catch his breath. The King, angry though he was, was also devastatingly handsome. Kurt had noticed it from afar, and now, standing right beneath the man's nose, it was still true.

"O, Great King," Kurt said, making as graceful a bow as he could. "I, Kurt Hummel, have brought to you my sister, as per your request."

Blaine snarled at the way Kurt said _request_ , but he made no other mention of it.

"Good," he said. "I thank you." Blaine nodded in a way that was meant to send Kurt off, but Kurt did not leave, standing in line with his sister as if attempting to block Blaine's view of her. "Fine," Blaine added, irritated at not being understood. "You may leave now."

"Oh, but I cannot," Kurt said apologetically, with another gracious bow. "For I have brought you a special gift. A wedding present, as it were."

"A gift?" Blaine's eyes narrowed. He looked down the back of the young man bowing before him, then at the girl cowering several steps behind him. Blaine looked around him at the whole of his city standing with bated breath, waiting to hear what the King would say. "What _gift_ have you for me?"

Kurt rose to his feet, smiling at the confused king. "Me, Oh Great King."

The pause after Kurt said those words could have dragged on forever while Blaine stared in bewilderment, the silence itself so pointed it could have cut through Kurt's clothing like it was tissue paper.

"You?" Blaine scoffed. Then he laughed loudly. He turned to those around him to ensure that they laughed as well. As soon as Blaine did that, all handsomeness his face beheld for Kurt left him, the light in his eyes became a dull twinkle, the kindness in his smile a trick of the light. The King showed himself to be just like every other man Kurt had ever met (save a few) – conceited, arrogant, inconsiderate, and boorish. "What do you mean _you_?"

"Me," Kurt repeated, emboldened more by the King's rudeness than he would have by his kindness. "I offer myself to you as husband before you marry my sister."

Blaine shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said in a booming voice, "but when I sent my emissaries out, I distinctly remembering saying that I wanted a _bride,_ not a _husband_. Though I can see how someone might make a similar error in judgement."

"And how's that, Your Grace?" Kurt asked politely, all the while biting his tongue. He knew he was setting himself up. He purposefully took the bait.

"Well, if I were drunk and beaten black and blue, with my eyes swollen to slits, I might mistake you for a bride as well."

More laughter grew up around them, but Kurt continued undeterred. "I quite understand that, Your Grace" he said as if the words did not affect them. And they didn't … too much. He'd heard them before. "But you have had husbands before. My sister is young – the youngest in my family. It is unseemly for the youngest to be wed before the eldest."

"We don't stand by those traditions here. My rule supercedes those concerns."

"My father is willing to offer you dowry for us both, Great King," Kurt offered, appealing to the one tradition the King might still stand by, "so that you might not be inconvenienced in this matter."

Kurt bit his lips together quickly after he said it, for it was, of course, a little white lie, but a lie so white it was almost truth. His father had already arranged to pay Rachel's dowry. Rachel had told Kurt so. But for Kurt, there would be none, so Kurt would pay it himself from the money he had offered his father, which his father had refused. In Kurt's eyes, the money still belonged to his father since he had made a gift of it. In returning it, he felt his father was asking him to use it for the greater good of the family.

Kurt could see no greater good than saving the life of his beloved sister, and that meant finding a way to remain with her.

But would the law see it that way if the King ever found out?

For the sake of keeping Rachel's head on her pretty neck, and Kurt's on his own, he'd better make certain _no one_ finds out.

As Blaine contemplated both sister and brother, with stern eyes for Rachel and sour eyes for Kurt, Kurt stepped forward boldly so that only he - his _body_ \- filled the King's view.

"Do you not find me pleasing, Great King?" Kurt asked, lowering his eyes and forming his mouth into a pout, one he knew attracted the attention of most men.

"No," Blaine said sharply. That word, and his tone, slapped Kurt, hitting at his pride. But Kurt knew that to be untrue. Men were so easy to read. And even though Blaine was a King, he was also a man. A man whose eyes snuck peeks at Kurt's figure when he moved, who had looked him over from head to foot more than once, even though it wasn't obvious. Who stared at Kurt longer, for one reason or another, than he did at his sister Rachel. Kurt could still do this. He could still persuade him. He just had to find something other than the King's carnal cravings to appeal to.

"Hmm, strange. So very … interesting," Kurt said with a tilt of his head, letting his voice drift off and his eyes go distant.

Those words piqued Blaine's curiosity so strongly, he couldn't resist investigating them. "Why? What do you see as strange?"

"The King of Sheba would have not refused such a gift as two spouses, and, in my humble opinion, he is not half the King you are, Your Majesty."

Blaine stood straighter, taken aback by Kurt's words. " _You_ have met the King of Sheba?"

"I have, Great King," Kurt said, quelling the urge to react offended by the King's surprise. Of course, sheltered little kingdoms often times had sheltered little monarchs leading them. Kurt could not expect anything different of Blaine. "And though I am not a member of the King's court, I have performed there numerous times. I have seen many men and women made gifts to him, and he received them all with adolescent zeal. Which makes me curious then why you would not."

Blaine's brow pinched so swiftly, Kurt was sure the man had torn something loose. "Are you questioning my judgement?" Blaine accused, eyes aflame.

"Not questioning," Kurt said calmly, though his heart pounded in his throat. "On the contrary, I feel there is genius to not simply accepting every present thrown at your feet. Why, the King of Siam would take anything handed to him with absolutely no regard. It is nice to know that Your Grace, our own Magnificent King, is a man of discerning tastes, a man who knows what he wants, what he deserves, and does not suffer fools."

Kurt raised his voice as he said this, appealing to the crowd behind them, and like trained seals, the people clapped and cheered, agreeing with Kurt's assessment through a vigorous round of applause.

But Blaine was not convinced. His hazel eyes bore into Kurt with as much curiosity as skepticism. "You have not been to Siam."

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but I have just come from Siam. It was a long journey, too …" Kurt sighed, a nostalgic smile lifting his lips "… tiring but _exhilarating_." That lie was a bit more grey than white, but Kurt was a storyteller after all. He would be a poor one at that if he stuck solely to the truth. Kurt caught the twinkle of intrigue in the King's eyes. He thought he may just have the man hooked. He just needed to reel him in. "I would be more than happy to tell Your Grace all about it if he would be willing to accept my gift." Kurt didn't present this ultimatum lightly, but he was running out of options. He had only just found a way to capture the King's attention. He hoped beyond hope that he would be able to keep it.

Those gathered around them – guards and merchants and commoners alike - became quiet once again. Kurt didn't think that a single person watching drew breath. He knew _he_ hadn't. He held his breath, therefore stopping time in his own head, trying to devise another plan should this one fail.

When he couldn't come up with anything, he began to sweat.

"You may stay," Blaine said with as dismissive a shrug as he could regardless of the knot blooming in his head. It was causing him a headache, refusing to be ignored.

Just like this man, and his many attributes, refused to be ignored.

"I will take the gift you've offered me," he continued. "I will have you as my husband, and then your sister as my wife." Blaine chuckled. It chilled Kurt's blood, but it also strengthened him. Kurt would let his heart grow cold if that's what it took to survive in this King's palace.

Whatever it took to ensure the well-being of his beloved Rachel.

"And why not? Tis no skin off my nose to have two spouses service me." _Maybe it will get this poison out of my system twice as fast_ , Blaine privately hoped.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Kurt said, bowing lower than ever to hide the smirk on his face.

The matter of his heart steadily drilling its way out of his ribcage he'd deal with later on.


End file.
